Peeta's Story
by BridgetMReads
Summary: The Hunger Games retold from Peeta's perspective, from beginning to end as it happened. Follows the thoughts behind Peeta's actions. I'll try to keep the story mostly consistent but there may be some inaccuracies here and there. I'll also try to update weekly! Disclaimer: The rights to these characters and the epic original plot belong to the wonderful, gifted Suzanne Collins :) xx
1. Chapter 1

The blisters on my hands are especially red today. Shoving a scorching hot metal shovel into an open oven fire for four hours straight tends to have that effect on hands. Albeit I didn't exactly need to inflict this torture on myself. I just need a distraction. Because today… well today is the day. The Reaping. District 12 will have two children plucked from its dwindling population and two different families will grieve. Two different families will face knowing that their children won't return. 12 hasn't seen a victor in years, and the chances of one this year…

"Peeta! What are you doing – you're burning them!" and a pair of elbows and hands more damaged than my own shove me out of the way and rescue the burnt remains of the final batch of loaves. "You stupid, useless boy! Go get changed, its nearly time. When you get back you'll be paying for this."

I duck my head and leave. Best not to argue with her when she's mad, I should know, it just leaves me with a red mark splattered across the face. Our house has exactly four rooms… if you could even call it a house for that matter. One is the kitchen, one the bakery out the front and one is the room my parents share, and the last is the room that the kids shares. We're not the least wealthy in the district, what with the bakery to provide a relatively steady income, though we're not exactly far from poverty. There are five of us; myself, my mother, my father and my two siblings. I am the middle child, my older brother is 21 and is safe from the reaping, and my younger brother is 11, too young to be entered. Me, I'm 16 and am able to be entered, but with only 5 entries it's unlikely I'll be chosen.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple really. There are 12 districts which surround the capitol, and from each of these 12 districts one girl tribute and one boy tribute must be selected from the reaping bowl, which contains the names of every child within the district, to compete in the Games. Each child within the 12 districts between the ages of 12 and 18 are eligible to be Reaped. It is stated that when a child turns 12, their name will be entered into the Reaping bowl once. When they turn 13 their name will go in twice, and so on until the child reaches 18 with a total of 7 entries. However, any one child, if they so wish, can opt to enter their name in a second, third, fourth, fifth time each year in exchange for tesserae, which they can then exchange for a meagre portion of grains and oil to support their family. I, myself, have never had to do this, as my family can sustain itself on the bread we make at the bakery and the income we earn from it. However there are others not as fortunate who may have their names entered over 40 times and are far more likely to be Reaped. This, of course, can create divisions between the people of each district, inducing resentment in those who live in poverty for those who live comfortably. But, that is what the capitol wants, isn't it? To have us divided, to keep everyone from unity. Because unity within and among the districts could mean a problem for the capitol.

When the 24 tributes have been chosen, they will each be taken by train from their respective districts and shipped off to the capitol, where they will have time to train to survive in the chosen arena for this years games. The arena could be anything. One year it was nothing but a deserted wasteland, where contestants struggled to find water, shelter, food, and many died from starvation. The gamemakers (the people responsible for putting the arena together) learnt from that mistake. To have the tributes slowly die from starvation doesn't exactly make for a good show, now does it? Another year they had an arena filled with poisonous animals and plants. So, instead of the tributes fighting each other to the death in a bloodbath as the capitol so craved to see, the tributes were picked off one by one by the elements within the arena, which similarly made for bad television. Each year the games get more cruel, more twisted, more bloody as the gamemakers learn from their mistakes. The people of the capitol want to see blood. The gamemakers comply. The fear within the districts builds each year. The divide among individuals in the districts grows greater.

I stand in front of the cracked full length mirror and reach a hand up to pull down the collar of the white button down shirt. I've put on my best pair of pants, the best shoes I own, and have combed back my hair so that nothing stands on end, a challenge in itself. I don't look anything like myself. We're expected to dress up in our finest clothes and parade into the town centre like well groomed pigs ready for the slaughter. It's what President Snow demands from us.

I leave the room, unable to look myself in the mirror a moment longer. As I'm ducking out the door my mother halts me. "Where do you think you're going, boy?" she asks, her voice low and filled with menance. I turn to look at her, but a blur of skin blocks my view of her. My face immediately burns and everything goes black for a second. When I can see again, she's standing there, scowling at me as though I'm filth she found on the bottom of her shoes. "You burn my bread again, you'll get worse than that. Get out."

I slam the front door shut and storm outside, moving past the pig sty and onto the main road to the town square. I can already feel a red mark sweltering under the skin of my cheek, but I ignore it, falling into line behind a group of teenagers moving in the same direction. I'm looking down at my feet, hands in my pockets, shame blistering in my stomach when I hear a familiar voice in front of me and nearly stop walking altogether.

Katniss.


	2. Chapter 2

She's there, walking next to her younger sister Prim. Of course. Prim's twelve now; she's eligible. I feel like yelling, like screaming at someone, something. Primrose Everdeen, a twelve-year-old girl who would never dream of hurting anyone, anything, who absolutely everyone adores, who could win over the toughest heart with the gentlest smile, is eligible to compete in a grotesque game that would have her fight to the death with 24 other innocent kids. And there she is, walking next to her sister, shaking like a leaf but walking with determination, and it's ripping me apart.

"You're fine, it's fine. Everything's going to be okay Prim. You're twelve, you only have one entry, they're not going to pick you. You're fine." Katniss repeats the same mantra of phrases quietly in an attempt to calm her down, but it doesn't seem to reach Prim's ears. All I want to do is stand on Prims other side and hold her hand and squeeze. But I know even if I did it wouldn't make a difference. I remember my first Reaping. Nothing makes a difference; the nerves, the paranoia, the fear; it stays with you long after the Reaping is over.

We approach the town square and are sectioned into different groups; boys and girls of different ages. I lose sight of Katniss and Prim and a lady is sitting at a table and asking for my hand. I give it to her and barely even feel the prick that takes the blood from my finger, identifying me, before I'm walking to the boys' side of the square and towards the front with my age group. The square is filled with shuffling, muffled coughs, shoes scuffing the gravel, but absolutely no talking. Camera crews are perched at odd angles around the square, waiting for the ceremony to begin in order to film the proceedings. The stage is set, with three chairs behind a podium behind two large glass bowls that contain the names of every child between the age of 12 and 18 within the district. Two of the three chairs are already filled with Mayor Undersee and District 12's escort for this year; Effie Trinket, fresh from the capitol. The third seat, usually reserved for Haymitch Abernathy (12's personal mentor) is currently empty, much to the obvious displeasure of both the mayor and escort. As for the glass bowls, my name is in the boy's designated bowl 5 times. That thought, along with the question of how many times Katniss' name is entered, are the only thoughts that fill my mind. She'd have to have four times as many as me, maybe more. I couldn't say. And it terrifies me.

All too soon Mayor Undersee steps up to the podium and begins reciting the same speech that we hear every year, and I immediately tune out. I can't listen to him tell everyone Panem's history, how The Hunger Games was born, why two tributes from each district are chosen to die each year. Of course, he refers to The Hunger Games as nothing but a blessing, a way in which we are reminded every damn year of the Capitols success in abolishing the Dark Days and squash the uprising. The Games are a way to remind everyone within every district that they are completely and utterly under the capitols thumb; if anyone dare object they will be annihilated. The mayor refers to the past 73 years as a time of utter peace, a reprieve from the Dark Days in which people everywhere dared use their voices. It's sickening the way he recounts it, as though the deaths of over 1600 children, the reaping of over 1600 innocent lives means nothing. No, no I won't listen to it again.

Undersee closes his speech by reading off the list of victors twelve has seen in the past 73 years. Of course, considering we're district 12, we have a laughable number of them. 12 has seen exactly 2 victors in it's lifetime, and of those 2 only one is alive today. Haymitch Abernathy is 12's only remaining victor, and speaking of which he currently comes stumbling up the stairs, yelling unintelligibly yet insistently at Effie, who appears absolutely mortified. He's downright drunk off his face and completely out of it. The crowd gives him a customary round of applause, but of course this only seems to confuse him as he tries to give Effie a hug, pushing her wig slightly off kilter in the process. Yep, that's Haymitch. That's the person who's meant to mentor the two tributes from district 12; who's supposed to coach the two chosen children to survive within the arena. And he's pissed. It's an absolute _wonder_ that 12 doesn't have more victors.

In an effort to pull the focus from Haymitch, Mayor Undersee invites Effie to the stage. Clearly relieved, Effie all but shoves him from the podium and looks out over the crowd, a huge, joyous, idiotic grin plastered on her painted, monstrous face. She has bright pink hair accompanied by a light green suit, and it looks strange on her. The capitol really does have a... unique taste in fashion. Their people are just as grotesque and distorted, _ugly_ , on the outside as they are on the inside.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!" she trills, moving from the podium over to the two glass bowls. I stand up a little straighter, paying attention now. This is it, the moment when we all find out whether or not we're the unlucky chosen tributes. "Ladies first," Effie chirps, sauntering towards the bowl to right of her. Fear bubbles in my gut. I squash it down. The odds of Katniss being chosen are slim to none, what with the amount of names in that bowl. I find myself repeating the same few calming sentences Katniss droned to her sister before the reaping. _Everything's fine. She won't be picked. It's going to be –_

"Primrose Everdeen!"


	3. Chapter 3

Everything stops. No sound, no movement, no nothing. And then she's moving. Katniss is moving and then she's running and then she's screaming. "Prim! Prim!" my heart sinks into my chest. God, no please, please don't let this be happening. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" and my heart stops beating. No. No please _no._ Prim is in hysterics but I don't really hear any of it. The blood drains from my head and I feel like I might just fall through the earth. Everything is numb, my head is spinning and the only thought that I can make sense of is that no matter what happens, no matter what name Effie calls, I'll volunteer in the male tributes place.

Effie appears almost as shocked as Katniss does. There's a rule in all the districts; when one tribute is chosen, another male or female may take the place of the male or female tribute by volunteering. In districts 1 and 2 volunteering is commonplace, considering every child wants the glory of attempting to win the Games. They even have a name for the tributes in 1 and 2; they call them the Careers. They spend their lives training for the Games. In other districts, in 12 particularly, volunteering practically guarantees a death sentence. I can't breathe.

"Lovely!" Effie exclaims unsurely. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um..." and she just lets her voice trail off and stands there stupidly.

"What does it matter?" intones the mayor, sorrow coating his words. "What does it _matter?_ Let her come forward." And so she tries to move up the steps, but now Prim is wrapping her tiny arms around her waist and shrieking her head off.

"No, Katniss! No, you can't go!" and I want to kill someone. I want so badly to ascend those stairs and strangle Effie, to attack the peacekeepers, I want so, so badly to end this. Hatred blinds me for a moment, hatred so red I didn't know I was capable of feeling this much. But all I can do is just stand here, just wait with my fists clenched, jaw set, eyes blazing. Tears spill over them but I don't care, not at all. I'll volunteer, I'll make them see the pain I'm feeling. Let them think I'm weak. I've never been this strong in my entire life.

"Prim let go. Let go!" and Katniss is shoving her sister away from her and I can see it's killing her. She doesn't cry. No, she wouldn't. Of course she wouldn't. And here comes the boy that I sometimes see with Katniss near the markets, the tall boy with the big family; I think his name is Gale. And he's come to take Prim away, kicking and screaming and crying and he's a rock and doesn't feel it.

"Well bravo! That's the spirit of the Games!" Effie clucks, eyes twinkling madly. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," she says, her voice strong, no ounce of emotion in it. It drives a stake through my heart.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" Effie laughs and I want to be sick. "Come on everybody! Let's give a round of applause to our newest tribute!"

No one claps. There's no sound. Nothing. I need to do something, so I do the only thing I can think of. I raise my left arm and three fingers to my lips, and then hold it out to her. And one by one, every member of the crowd does the same. I've seen the gesture before, when I've attended funerals. In our district, it means saying goodbye to a loved one. But I'm not saying goodbye to her. It means respect. It means admiration. It means thanks. It means peace. It means the acknowledgement of something special, something living. It means everything she deserves.

Haymitch crashes through the silence and takes the microphone from Effie, then addresses Katniss, wrapping an arm around her. "Look at her! Look at this one! I like her! Lot's of...spunk!" And then he does something that makes me nauseous. He addresses the cameras. "More than you! More than you!" and I know he's trying to talk directly to Snow. And in his own quiet, drunken way he's rebelling and my palms are sweating. After all, our entire district just did the same thing, giving Katniss our thanks and goodbyes in our own way. When I rose my left arm it was to acknowledge Katniss's braveness, her humanity, yet that's not what Snow will see. He'll see something much more than that; he'll see a threat directed at him. And I almost regret doing it. Almost.

And then, almost as if realising what he's done, Haymitch plummets from the stage into a drunken heap on the ground. But I don't look at him, I look at Katniss, who for the first time since she volunteered lets her feelings enter her face. The anger twists in me again and I stop myself from charging up the stage that instant.

I barely see Effie's hand dive into the male tributes bowl before her sharp voice rings clear through the square a second time. "What an exciting day! But more excitement to come! It's time to choose the boy tribute!" and I hold my breath and I clench my fists and I –

"Peeta Mellark."

Relief. Shock. That's all I feel as I push my way through the orderly rows of equally relieved children, because they're safe. A collective sigh reverberates, echoes among the families of the kids who weren't selected, almost too soft to be heard. It's gone as soon as it starts, almost as if everyone standing here watching me take the stage feels guilty. They know they shouldn't, it's not their fault, but if I weren't chosen one of their children would be in my place instead of me.

And then, as I'm making my way through the crowd, I take a second to marvel at how unlikely it was that both mine and Prims names were chosen. Katniss said it herself, Prim's name was only entered once; it's her first year and she's only 12. My name was only entered 5 times, the best odds I could ask for at my age. I can't help but wonder if maybe...was this planned? Are all the names handpicked before we even get to the Reaping by the gamemakers? But no, if they wanted to do that, the gamemakers surely would have picked a boy tribute in his last year for added effect.

Effie asks for volunteers as I'm making my way to the stage, but no one answers her. I didn't expect anyone to.

I walk slowly towards the wooden stairs and catch Katniss's eye, seeing in her something I didn't expect: recognition. Bewilderment. I've never really spoken to her before, but I know her. I remember it like I'm standing there now. I was 11, so was she, and she was walking home past our bakery in the rain and she stopped outside the bakery. She looked close to starving, the sodden clothes hanging loosely off her frame. She was looking through our trashcans when my mother left the house and started yelling at her as if she were an animal, and I just stood at the door behind her, simmering quietly as she walked away. I saw her go to sit beneath a tall tree near the pig sty, the hope, the light fading from her eyes. I knew what I had to do. I went straight to the bakery and I shoved two loaves of bread into the oven and waited. After a time my mother entered the bakery, probably roused by the smell of burning and when she saw the loaves blackening in the fire, she didn't hesitate before beating me with a rolling pin and yelling profanities at me.

"Feed it to the pigs, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burnt bread!" And she watched me as I tore off chunks into the trough meant for the pigs. The bell ringed inside and she left to attend to a customer, and I waited until I was sure she couldn't see me, and then I tossed a loaf towards Katniss, who had been watching me. I tossed her the other one and then left quickly. I watched from inside as she stared at the loaves incredulously, took the bread and left.

I climb purposefully, steadily up the wooden stairs, trying to catch her eyes again but now she's staring fixedly at the crowd, at her mother and her little sister. There's anger in her stare, as sure as there's anger in mine. No sadness, no mourning, no fear. Pure, scathing anger. I make a promise to myself, in this very moment, that I will do whatever it takes to bring her back. District 12 will have a victor this year. And it sure as hell won't be me.


	4. Chapter 4

Peacekeepers place firm hands on our backs and arms, leading us to the Justice Building behind the stage, making sure we don't run. I wish I could tell them I would never run. I'm not leaving her. We ascend ridiculous polished marble stairs, and are lead into a hallway with only two doors, one for her and one for me. I reach out and give her hand a squeeze before we're pulled apart, but I don't think she feels it. I honestly don't think she feels anything right now. I don't blame her.

The room I'm thrust in is as stupidly decadent as the hallway was, with red velvet curtains, an oak bookcase, a dark velvet loveseat and absolutely no windows, in order to secure that the chosen tributes don't jump that is. I know what happens next; we're meant to wait in this room while one by one our family members come to say their goodbyes. I honestly doubt that mine would care enough to do so.

It feels like a thousand hours have passed before the door opens. A tall man with greying blond hair shoulders past the peacekeepers and heads straight for me. It looks as though all the colour has been drained from his face; his eyes are empty and he stands as though he's being dragged down by an unbearable weight.

"Father," I say as I get up awkwardly. He comes towards me and before I can say anything more wraps his arms around my shoulders and squeezes all he has into me. I'm shocked enough that I don't say anything else and just let myself hug him back hard. This is the same man who barely raised me, who turned a blind eye while my mother beat me, who never talked to me unless he had to. And here he is embracing me like I'm the world to him. And here I am doing the same. I can't help it, hot tears spring to my eyes and flow silently down my cheeks. He didn't come here to make amends for his absence in my life, he came to tell me without words goodbye. And suddenly it becomes real, and all the fear, hysteria and grief comes flooding out of me before I can stop it.

He lets go too soon and pulls back. "I went to see her," he tells me, eyes unable to meet my own. "I know. How you feel about her. Son, I'm so sorry. For everything. Just… please, please don't give up." And he's crying almost as hard as I am.

"I have to. She's going to make it back to her family." The hope vanishes from his eyes and he nods, as though he was expecting this.

"I know." He steps closer and drops his voice to a whisper, "If you're going to do this, you need to do it right. Think. Form the alliances you need to to keep her safe. Do the smart thing, think about what it is they expect from you and you pretend to follow their rules for the cameras. Make yourself seem strong, a person worthy of an alliance with the careers. When you're interviewed you give them a reason to sponsor you. You be charming, you win them over, you don't let them see your anger. You're from 12 Peeta, they won't expect much from you, none of them will have paid you any attention during the Reaping. You need to make an impression with the interviews. Make them love you Peeta. The rest will fall into place. But promise me you won't lose yourself, Peeta." All I can do is nod. A peacekeeper opens the door and starts to tell him his time is up. "It's a game Peeta. You need to play it. You make it to the end with her. Then do what you need to." And with that my father is being ripped away from me, leaving my head reeling. He's right. It is a game. But I won't let myself become a pawn for him. For Snow. I won't let myself forget everything he did to her, to everyone. Ripping her and thousands of others from their family, and for what? He doesn't own me, he won't make me into a monster. I won't kill for him. It's a game.

So I won't play it. Every other tribute can but I sure as hell won't be giving him the satisfaction of winning.

The door bursts open for a third time and I look up only to see a streak of blond and then a pair of arms wrap around me. "Peeta," says Delly Cartwright soberly, her arms tightly gripping my waist. I pull back from her and look into her face.

"I'm not going to do it Delly," I tell her resolutely. "I'm not doing it so don't…just don't." I know what she wants from me. She wants me to try to win. Delly is my closest friend, I've known her my entire life and she knows me better than my family. So she knows what I'm planning to do. Tears prick the corner of her eyes, but she blinks them away hurriedly and smiles brightly through it.

"No, yeah I should have expected. Do you, um… do you have a plan?" she laughs sheepishly and raises a hand to wipe the excess tears from her cheek.

"You know what my plan was. If she was ever reaped, I'd volunteer. I'd go with her, protect her, do what I can to get her to the end. That's the plan, always has been." She shakes her head and leans in closer.

"You know what I mean," she says, voice lowered. "How do you plan on getting her to the end. You'd be one of the weakest. You're smart, but the tributes in 1 and 2 have been training for this their entire life. When you get there you've got to get stronger. Smarter. Figure out their weaknesses. If you won't do it for yourself, then do it to protect her -"

"Del, there's no way in hell I'm killing for him. I'll keep her safe, I'll train enough to survive until the end to do it, but the only life I plan to end is -"

"Don't say it. Please." I go to hug her again, tightly because I know it's for the last time.

"Thank you for coming to see me." And then she's leaving, closing the door behind her and I can't stop the tears from tumbling down my cheeks. I won't be ashamed of it, of crying. I'll never pretend to be less of a human being for them. Because that's what they'll be expecting. For me to be strong, to show no emotion, to present myself as an inhuman, unfeeling piece in their twisted, demonic Games.

I've been sitting in this prison cell for endless minutes and no one else has come to see me, so I let my thoughts stray. I have time to think strategy, right now I need to get my anger out before I face the cameras again. _Can't let them see me angry,_ I think bitterly.

The people of the capitol wouldn't want that. They want to watch The Hunger Games, they want to watch children being ripped apart by other children, but they don't want to feel bad about it. They don't want to be made to feel like the monsters they are for allowing this to go on for years upon years upon years. The bloodshed, the screams, the torture they inflict upon innocent _children_ is just entertainment to them. Because they're not real, the children. Not to the capitol. Not to President Snow. Anger coils itself into a ball within the pit of my stomach. I can fight it; I know I can. We all can. We choose not to, out of fear. Fear of what he'll do to us if we revolt. We're helpless. We don't have to be.

"It's time," two peacekeepers enter, grab me by the elbows and begin to escort me from the room. I go in silence. I turn to the right to try to catch a glimpse of Katniss, but she must already be ahead of me because no peacekeepers wait outside her door. This is it.


End file.
